


Tomorrow's Ahead of Us

by certainlyjim



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Hurt!Jim, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, h/c if you squint in a weird way, post-STXI, pre-stxii
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:19:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certainlyjim/pseuds/certainlyjim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://st-xi-kink-meme.livejournal.com/15838.html?thread=15678686#t15678686">prompt fill</a>:</p><blockquote>
  <p>So let's say that, after the Battle of Vulcan, there's very little room on the ship. The only quarters that have any space for Jim to stay are Spock's, and although Jim is reluctant to impose (and scared silly that Spock might choke him again), he agrees to sleep there (on the couch?) when he nearly passes out from fatigue.</p>
  <p>Sometime during the night, he develops a fever; turns out that all the running around on Delta Vega disrupted his immune system, and now he has the flu. Spock is surprised (and horribly guilty), but then his mothering instincts kick in and he takes care of Jim - brings him water, carries him to his bed to make him more comfortable.</p>
  <p>Jim is surprised, to say the least.</p>
  <p><strike>Sexytimes would be much appreciated.</strike> </p>
</blockquote>posting first ch. bc k/s day (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow's Ahead of Us

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: un'beta'd;  
> i follow the prompt, but it may not actually be exactly what the prompter wanted (nervous sweating), also prolly no 'sexytimes' tbh  
> gratuitous amounts of hurt!kirk

Pausing at the turbolift Spock turns to the on-duty ensign, “Once I receive permanent quarters from the quartermaster, i will send the appropriate room number to you, ensign. You will send any messages of pertinence to my personal terminal, upon that receival; is that clear.”

The ensign stands at stiff attention, and nods, “Aye, sir.”

Spock stares at the ensign, to the point that they begin shifting weight, eyes flickering to his face and away.

Satisfied that the orders have not been waylaid by stress induced incompetence, “Very well. You have the conn.”

He enters the turbolift, doors sliding closed, as the ensign still stands, staring blankly at the turbolift. It has been five hours and fifty eight minutes since the last minute releasing of the warp cores into the black hole that threatened to engulf the Enterprise and her crew, newly survived from Nero’s mad attack.

In those hours, it has been reported, forty five percent of the crew is dead or missing in action; a crew not yet graduated from the academy, a crew maintained by a skeleton of high ranked individuals, not enough to staff a full shift rotation. The command crew is currently on mandated rest, Spock being exempt because, he informed Dr. McCoy, he is Vulcan. The Doctor was quite red in the face, before he asked Spock to kindly leave sickbay. Their conversation was four hours ago, he is just now relieving himself, his mental strength not optimal as muscular and mental aches become more frequent.

He is in need of meditation; however, he cannot sooth this need until he has been given quarters, from the list of remaining quarters. a list that is small, both from the population of the remaining Vulcan’s on board, and the unusable portions of the ship, where atmosphere controls have failed; over thirty percent of the ship.

The turbolift stutters to a stop, lights flickering, red emergency lights taking over for a moment before the main power reengages. The turbolift does not continue its descent. To receive his assigned quarters, he needs to make way to sickbay; from his current position, sickbay is two decks down. He turns to the wall controls and alerts engineering of the faulty turbolift, no matter they will likely not be keeping track of minor inconveniences, but of stabilizing the engines of the Enterprise and assuring her hull remains intact for the long journey to Earth.

He will make use of the Jeffery tubes, so the inconvenience is very minor. Pressing the wall-padd to open the doors, and they stutter open, stopping without actually opening fully.

He walks through.

“Commander.” a young lieutenant salutes, red uniform smudged with grease and darker stains.

Spock clasps his hands behind himself, “Lieutenant, the turblift will go no further than this deck. If you wish to, I would advise the Jeffery tubes.”

The lieutenant blinks at him, “No problem, sir, I’m heading to the bridge.”

Spock moves away from the turbolift, and the lieutenant walks, “Thanks, though.”

The turblift doors do not close, as it rises up, and Spock hears the lieutenant talking to himself— a lieutenant from engineering, then.

He is looking up into the warped burnt clouds of Vulcan; Nero’s drill has destabilized his home, ground under his feet, unsafe.

Spock turns from the turbolift and walks down the empty corridor, minute cracks, spreading in places, and acrid stench of electric smoke hangs, wafting from where it comes. There are Jeffery tubes near, that will take him from this deck, past sickbays deck, to the one below, where he will switch and take a final climb to his destination.

He knows that all of the Vulcan refugees have been given separate quarters from the crew, and others who are not Vulcan, and he wishes to find his father to make certain that their needs are being taken care of, to the best of the Enterprise’s abilities.

His regulation boots still carry red dust from his home, scuffed from his sprint, and he does not know whether he should clean them or collect the dust. He is not sentimental, but he does not  _know_. Because he does not know, he knows he needs to meditate.

He looks away from his dusty boots, and sees an uniformed crew member leaning against the bulk head ahead of him. They are attempting to communicate with a wall-comm that is obviously damaged, metal dented and pieces missing.

“Crew member,” Spock calls, walking closer, and the crew member does not respond.

Spock draws to a stop slightly behind them, can see they are relying on the bulkhead to remain standing. He reaches for their shoulders, fingers curling over it.

“Crew memb—“ he turns the crew member, and it is the, “Captain?”

Captain Kirk slides down but for Spock’s hands on his shoulders, and slumps on the wall, bleary eyes looking up at him, “Hey, ‘mander.”

Lips twitching almost to a smile, one of Captain Kirk’s hands latching onto his left wrist. Captain Kirk is pleased to see him, happy to see him— to see anyone, it’s been a long day hasn’t it; he’s tired, got nowhere to slee—

Spock rigidly peels Captain Kirk’s fingers from his wrist, propping him with his forearm over his chest.

Captain Kirk does not resist him, “Captain, what are you doing.”

“’m— was try’n’a get Boness on the comm. Broken, though.” Captain Kirk’s hand reaches for the comm, fingers sliding down the bulkhead.

Spock glances between Captain Kirk and the comm, “If I move, are you capable of standing without assistance.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

Spock stares at him. The only reason Captain Kirk is still standing, is because Spock is holding him up. Spock eases off, slowly to counteract the immediate swaying forward of Captain Kirk, and turns to the comm. On the screen is sickbays signal, but the unit cannot connect, and Spock re-inputs the signal number twice, to the same effect. Captain Kirk has turned, head and left shoulder resting on the bulkhead, blue eyes lidded.

“’is broken, ‘mnder ‘ock.” words slurring worse, left arm cradled to his chest.

“Affirmative,” Spock says, reaching to the edges of the comm panel and prying the two top corners off, “However, I will locate the damage and attempt to either circumvent it or reconnect the disabled areas.”

The comm panel falls upon under his hands, and he stops. This wiring is not Starfleet standard, nor does it meet Starfleet safety regulations.

Captain Kirk’s right hand appears, and hovers over the far portion of the panel circuitry, “You’ll want to start here…’is where I stopped.”

“You did this?” Spock brings the maneuverable circuit board closer, and its knot of wires.

Captain Kirk does not immediately respond, and Spock looks up to his closed eyes, “ _Captain_.”

Eyes are slow to open, and still lidded, “myeah…wasn’ even on… when I found it…”

Captain Kirk’s deep breath is cut short with a pale grimace, “…ought getting it run…ning wou—would be fine.”

His un-shallow coughs jerk his head from the wall.

“It was not.” Spock parts a section of wires looking for the blue signal connector. Many of the wires are unusable, fused together, or too brittle to test with movement. He combs through a second section, and locates it— and it is too brittle to move. It is possible to fool the computer into accepting another wire as the host wire, but he does not have spare wiring to do so.

“Blue n' orange.” Captain Kirk interjects his thinking.

“Pardon?”

Captain Kirk’s eyes slide close for a moment, before, “… bypass secur… ity protocol. Splice ‘em toge… ther.”

“That will disrupt ship-to-ship communication on this entire deck.”

Captain Kirk rolls to rest on flat against the bulkhead, eyes closed, “don’t have any more ships, S… pock.”

This is true, the only ships within their depressed communication range, are empty containers of debris, their hulls not made to withstand the harshness of deep space— made to withstand the atmosphere of a planet, his home.

Spock secures two viable wires, and sheds them of their plastic coating before, twining them together. The Captain, quiet, but for his shallow wheezing. Two minutes, and Spock is satisfied he will not cause a power surge within the mainframe, and lifts the panel, and re-secures it to the wall. The display flickers under his fingers, re-entering the sequence for sickbay.

The successful connection does not occur immediately, and when it does, it is voice-only, the noise of sickbay loud in Captain Kirk’s and he’s empty corridor.

“Sickbay here.” the voice follows the strength of the connection, mellowing at its weakest and loud static at its strongest.

“This is Commander Spock, I am attempting to contact Dr. McCoy.”

“One sec—“ the voice cuts out, but Spock is still connected to sickbay.

He glances at Captain Kirk, and decides to steady his sagging body, dragging him closer to the comm, and holding him there.

“What'dya want, I'm busy.” Dr. McCoy says, impatient.

“Not I, Doctor, your Captain, Kirk.” Spock straightens Captains Kirk's sagging body, pushing his shoulders up against the comm screen, “Unfortunately he is currently unconscious.”

There are the noises of a crowded sickbay, “Jim? You found, Jim! Dammit, you get your ass back in here right now—“

“—Doctor. He cannot hear you.”

“What? Why?”

“At the cost of repeating myself; he has lost consciousness.” Spock says loudly into the comm, and the lights switch to battery for twenty one seconds as he waits for Dr. McCoy's reply.

“Where're you.' Dr. McCoy's voice is deeper and clearer, “Switched to handheld, now tell me, I'm coming.”

“Doctor, you cannot possibly leave sickbay unattended.”

Where the vast amount of injured are being kept and processed, before being let out to quarters. Spock frowns at the screen.

“You’re damn right I can, and I sure will. I'm the chief medical officer on this ship, Spock, and the Captain's health is my responsibility. Now you tell me, or I swear—“

“He is in no immediate danger, Dr. McCoy. I would advise you to stay at your station.” Spock slips his arm underneath Captain Kirk's, and steadies him by his own side. His head lolls against his shoulder, not far enough to be free of telepathic transference, and neither close enough for Spock to be certain of the nature of the transference.

Dr. McCoy splutters through the comm, “You listen here you green blooded eye sore, he hasn’t checked in since almost splattering against Vulcan, and I know, I  _know_ he’s collected more shit since then. He purposely didn’t come here to get checked out— I’m his personal physician, I know exactly what the fuck his immune system isn’t capable of. Now. Tell. Me. So I can check for all those shitty diseases he picked up on that planet you chucked him at.”

Dr. McCoy’s breath is heavy over the comm, but otherwise it is silent, he is no longer in sickbay.

“You are protective of him.”

“ _Spock_.” ground out.

“Dr. McCoy. I am two decks above sickbay.”

“He there with you?' Spock answers in the affirmative, “Shoulda said so.”

“He is— we are both here.” both on Nero's ship— both on his home's decaying surface— alone. Spock stops thinking in the plural.

“Dr. McCoy do not use the main turbolift; it is inoperative beyond this deck.”

Dr. McCoy curses, “You take it?”

“I did.” Spock shifts Captain Kirk and touches the comm screen. “Locator signals are not working.”

“Awhile now. Was Jim with you when you did?” Dr. McCoy huffs into his comm, the dull clang of metal telling Spock he is climbing Jeffery tubes.

“Negative.” Spock's fingers scroll along the comm screen searching for the error in the signal detectors.

“How'd he get up there, then?”

The ship around Spock shutters, groaning, lights flickering, he hears Dr. McCoy curse again, “I do not know.”

Dr. McCoy begins a steady stream of defamations and incredulities centered on Captain Kirk, “Dr. McCoy, are there yet solitary quarters available.”

“What? You didn't get assigned yet?”

“Negative, I was on my way to sickbay to do so, when I came upon the Captain.”

“Dammit man, why didn't you say so in the first place; Moffers was in sickbay.” Dr. McCoy says, irritable, “a mo' I'm checking— it's real uncomfortable hanging for my dear life in the Jefferies, Spock, I hope you appreciate me riskin' my life.”

“You are in no danger, unless you fail to pay attention to your surroundings, Doctor.”

Captain Kirk shifts against Spock, a soft moan escaping him.

“What was that?— whatever,” Spock can almost hear the shake of his head, “There! Found a room for you, on the same deck, too. A small place, uh, f017, Spock. Meet up there?”

“Agreed, Spock out.”

Spock brings up the deck plan and locates f017, before exiting the program and allowing the comm to run in standby mode. He turns right, dragging Kirk’s feet to face that way.

“Captain, are you conscious.” he slips his hand from around Captain Kirk's waist, and squeezes his shoulder.

Captain Kirk’s breath hisses out, head jerking up, almost hitting Spock’s chin, “’t— don— too har— d.”

His head falls back down, but his weight is not as dependent on Spock, “Apologies, Captain. You did not appear to be injured there.”

”’m not.” Captain Kirk says, tries to face Spock, not realizing that Spock has his other arm around his shoulders, and his breathe hisses again, “Wha’ are you doing?”

“I am taking you to Dr. McCoy.”

“Oh,” he breathes, straightening, and taking more of his own weight, “You got it to work, then?”

Captain Kirk turns to him, glassed eyes, and face too close.

“Yes, you lost consciousness shortly beforehand.”

“m'no,” Captain Kirk shakes his head, pulling on the arm around Spock's shoulders again, and Spock releases it, feels it slide over his neck, “Jus' resting my eyes.”

Spock is certain he was not conscious, “Very well. You intend to walk of your own power, Captain?”

Captain Kirk’s unfocused eyes jerk to his face, body swaying forward, past Spock, arms hanging at his sides.

Spock waits a short moment, following the rise and fall of captain kirks regulation boots, but he does not answer. Spock follows behind in the empty corridor, his own boots leaving behind soot and ash that he does not want cleaned.

“Yeah, I can make it…” Captain Kirk stops.

Spock stops, unsure, “Captain, it has—“

Captain Kirk turns profile to him, “—where’re we…?”

Spock takes a step, hands falling to his sides, “Captain, I believe you not in full possession of your mental faculties at this time. It is five minutes and 35 seconds after I asked of your capability to walk unaided.’

Six hours and five minutes and 40 seconds, and he no longer  _can_ go home.

This revelation to Captain Kirk does nothing to his expression, he stares blank faced. Spock steps closer and Captain Kirk’s eyes are not focused.

“You look jus' like him.” he breathes, eyes flickering and barley focusing on Spock.

“Pardon?”

Captain Kirk blinks, eyes clearing, “Uh, what? You never answered me.”

He makes an aborted motion down the corridor, full of cracks and hazy humid air, “Where’re we going?”

“F017; available quarters, sir.” Spock says, watching Captain Kirk, list slightly to the left.

“That's,” he squints, “That's far.”

His feet shuffle and Captain Kirk bumps into the wall, Spock’s hand between it and him.

“Captain, if your require assistance, I will render it.”

Captain Kirk brings his hand up and wraps his fingers around Spock’s forearm, head resting against the wall, eyes lidded.

“Can't.” he murmurs, eyes moving down, “A Comm'der shouldn't be helping a black shirt…'should be helping you. 'be weird.”

“Your logic is flawed due to your impaired thought process. You are the Captain; it is my responsibility to give assistance when you call for it, when you require it. Your uniform is nothing to weigh your continued survival against.”

“Only in name. You  _are_ the Commander, 'm a— nobody recognizes me. Shouldn’t be with you.”

He tries to pull away, and Spock pulls back, tugging him away and upright, “You are not in a state of mind to be making decisions— do not resist, Captain, our pace will be greater, if you allow me to do this.”

Spock will not see more death this day; he will not see needless death. He is going to take Captain Kirk to his quarters, and Dr. McCoy will medicate him.

“Fine.” Captain Kirk's unfocused glare and alarming pallor recede to a minor flush, and he makes another aborted gesture with his hand, towards Spock, “Only when no one's around, okay.”

A question posed as a statement is nearer a command, and demeans the original command itself, by a loss of confidence, but, “Understood, Captain.”

Captain Kirk and he are still the only individuals within sight, and the pace they take is slow. Spock’s left arm holding Captain Kirk around he back and waist, and his right hand secures Captain Kirk’s right arm around his shoulders. It is not comfortable, Captain Kirk being slightly shorter than him, and Captain Kirk leaning against him, relying on Spock to guide him. Captain Kirk’s shallow breathing is quicker, and the flush of unhealthy excursion darkens his face, but his unfocused eyes do not waver from where he looks forwards, even as his strength fails him repeatedly and his head falls to his chest, falls almost to Spock’s ear.

They pass several solitary Jeffery tubes entrances, emergency lights a dull brood of dark shadows. Captain Kirk is leaning heavier, needing more support, and Spock’s thinks he is not aware of his failed strength, the will of his silence and eyes, still fueling his stare straight, while his unconscious movement of walking becomes increasingly sluggish, to where Spock is visibly dragging captain kirks body.

Spock is coming to corner, where he will have to turn left, and coming up to it he hears voices over the thrumming of the ship. He pauses at the precipice of the corner; listens, it is small relocation of crew to another deck, and they wait in queue at the head of a Jefferies tube. He makes to continue on, a hard kick stops him.

“Le' me go.” Captain Kirk is standing under his own weight, and Spock lets go of his arm.

He sways, lurching towards the voices, and Spock, “Captain I would not advi—“

“—no.” he stops, faces Spock.

“Captia—“

He limps back to Spock, grabs him by the upper arm and pulls Spock in front of him, “Gotta’ go firs’. Comm’der, Spock.”

“This is not sat—“ Captain Kirk pushes out, “isfac— Greetings.”

'Commander's, 'sir's, and many 'Captain's echo in the corridor, and Spock looks behind himself to Captain Kirk, but glancing at the crew members, he sees them all looking to him— so he nods to them and begins passing the queue. He walks slow, listening for the limping gait of Captain Kirk, but he does not hear it. He glances back again, and Captain Kirk is striding behind him, smirking, exchanging words with the crew. A crew who do not recognize him, thinking him an ensign or lieutenant— and Spock understands why Captain Kirk's convoluted logic chose to play out as it is.

The rapid progression of ship scuttlebutt would have been severely interrupted by the past days events, and resulting would be few who know the actions of alpha shift bridge crew— and no time to spend on frivolous words. Spock walks on, hands settled behind, and even an announcement of an individual as newly appointed captain, does not mean the majority of the crew will recognize them upon seeing them— or believe it to be true. More so, he is second-in-command, if Captain Pike was no longer fit for duty, he would be the logical choice, not another.

Spock is past the remaining crew, and hears the steady steps of Captain Kirk behind him, solid and even. He is no longer talking, and no matter how leisurely Spock walks forwards, Captain Kirk will not come side by side to him, and remains in a position of subordination, behind him. Slowly the queue of crew disappears behind the curve of the ship, and their voices fade into the quiet thrum of machine.

Spock pauses, hears the deviation in Captain Kirk’s steps, and turns, “That was highly unnecessary, Captain.”

Captain Kirk’s body is not held as straight as it was, and Spock sees him wilt further, the strain of falsifying his health and wellness was great, “No. ‘s fine.”

Captain Kirk moves closer, knee giving into demands the body can no longer facilitate, and Spock is there, holding up by his underarms. Spock feels Captain Kirk’s head drop to his shoulder, hair moving against his neck and ear. Skin so close his, the undercurrent of thought— of hurt, of weariness, loss.

No. He must reign in his chaotic mind, and mind the telepathic etiquette, that all telepaths follow. But still he feels, a layer growing over his skin, suffocating him, cracking his fallow shields, scratching at the far of his mind, le’matya’s claws sharpening on weathered stone.

“Captain, you must stand, it is not far.” he shifts Captain Kirk around, hand sliding over his chest, arms loop around, and Kirk groans, rattling and deep, a shallow cough.

Spock feels the radiating heat, knows it is fever glazing his sight, and there is nothing Spock can do here, but take him faster.

“Bones, I'm standing, man,” he says, voice quiet, eyes closed, “… lay off a few.”

Spock does not comment, and they continue on, because he is indeed standing, as his weight is taken by Spock. The pretense of wellness is played out twice more, and after the second, Spock refuses to let go and not stabilize him by the underarm. Each time is worse, shallow breathing and pallor increasingly worrisome, and yet Captain Kirk has not lost consciousness. Spock can feel the in-held coughs shudder Captain Kirk’s body, and again there is nothing to be done, but lead on.

A final turn, and Spock reads the room number to his right; where the screen has fractured in two, but the classificatory room number is still legible through the disrupted electronic signal.

He grips Captain Kirk tighter, and walks past two doorways, before he comes to f017. He inputs his command access code and the wall-comm attempts to ping, but the noise is low, and Spock knows there is something misaligned within it. he will not attempt to salvage it currently, because the doors open, slowly, sticking like the turbolift’s, and he leverages Captain Kirk’s pliant body in before him.

“Captain Kirk, we have arrived,” he says, dropping his hold, and appraising the empty space, through flickering light, “It seems, before the Doctor.”

Captain Kirk reaches out to the waist level nightstand to his immediate left, turns only his head, “Yeah… you, uh, didn’t have to do this… thanks, Spock.”

Captain Kirk moves further into the confined space of the room, running fingers over the miniature couch sitting to the left.

Spock follows, past him, past the thin sheetless mattress bed to the right and the computer terminal behind it, he begins booting the terminal, “There was no choice in the matter. As Commander of this ship, it is required I see that the Captain is fit for duty.’

Spock lifts the flap covering the screen and watches the essential programs come online. He pulls out the swivel chair and begins opening up a communication link to the bridge, so that the on-duty ensign may properly begin streaming relevant data to him, for the time being. As he waits for confirmation from the bridge he opens supplies data he received prior to his leaving of the bridge. With preliminary numbers, there is sufficient numbers of functioning replicators and their accompanying material to feed the crew and refugees: however, this, only on a great rati—

“Hey, there any padds in that thing?” Captain Kirk asks, and Spock turns to him.

He is still standing, but at the end of the couch, in front of the narrow closet door.

“Captain,” Spock says, hands resting splayed over his thighs, “you should not be standing.”

Captain Kirk smirks softly, “It’s fine, I’d rather stand. ‘mind looking for a spare padd— like to keep busy.”

Spock stares at him, his shoulder length spread feet, and straight back— not leaning on anything, arms at his sides. Does not see the signs of severe exhaustion that he should. He reaches down, opens the sole cabinet of the terminal, takes out the spare padd there, and holds it out. Captain Kirk shuffles a step and takes it, tucking it into his left elbow with a murmur of gratitude, and retaking his stance in front of the closet door.

Spock stares as the blue padd light highlights his face, and his right hand scims over the padd screen, before turning back to his terminal.

Bridge data has begun streaming into his terminal, and Spock begins to separate the saturated data, into manageable information, that will be sent to the most applicable departments. The on duty communications officer has also attached a briefing of the minimal activities, and everything is as it should be for the time being, with the majority of the senior crew being barred from performing their duties on the orders of Dr. McCoy, for approximately seven hours.

Dr. McCoy who should have made it to these quarters before Captain Kirk and he. The lights flicker, dimming and do not brighten at once, and it is quiet, the higher thrumming of terminal overtaking the low thrum of the ship. Over the monotone thrumming he hears a haphazard disjointed pounding— a unique thudding that becomes closer as he listens to it. It sounds from the opposite direction Captain Kirk and he ventured from, and chases past their door, before the un-rhythmic sound collapses into quick silence. And doubles back, careening into the doors Spock watches, shuddering them. By the quiet beeps he hears from the door the sound is intelligent— and the doors unlock, sticking with a barely a five inch space where straining fingers poke through, and Spock hears the abuses leveled at the door.

“—amn door— I don't get paid for this, where're the engineers for this piece o'—”

Dr. McCoy cuts himself, the jammed doors jumping open, him tripping into the room, attempting not to fall, “Spock?”

Dr. McCoy straightens, drops his black leather bag on the mattress, surprise turning to scowl.

“Why the hell didn't you help me.”

“You did not appear to need it, Dr. McCoy.” Spock glances back at his screen, typing in approvals, and Dr. McCoy continues scowling.

Dr. McCoy jerks a thumb at the open entrance, “And the door? Sickbay don’t got these problems.’

“Indeed, sickbay is at the top of many lists, it is one of the most important facilities on this ship, Dr. McCoy, and its assets must be assured.: Spock turns to face him.

Dr. McCoy is no longer glaring at him, wide eyes and stricken features fixated on, “Jim? Jimmy?”

He stutters smoothly over to Captain Kirk who holds the padd in the crook of his arm, apparently uninterested in conversation. Dr. McCoy reaches out, hand stopping just over Captain Kirk’s shoulder, running down the air over his arm, the other palming the air of his face and cheek.

“Oh, Jimbo.” he says, hands roaming over the air, still not physically touching, “—how long he been like this?”

"I do—”

“—no,” Dr. McCoy says, turns his head sharply to glare at Spock with flared nostrils and high points of reddening anger, “Why'd you let him keep standing like this.”

“He expressed preference to continue standing; I did not begrudge him that.” Spock is fully turned to face both Dr. McCoy and the Captain, who has not yet spoken.

”You didn’t—" his glare worsens, “Fine, get the hell up, and be ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: im sorry about that not-really-an-ending folks


End file.
